


Tangerine Dream

by tb_ll57



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, M/M, Mind Games, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:49:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4358522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tb_ll57/pseuds/tb_ll57
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The mirror was fogging up from the shower's steam. There were words appearing there, fading in.  Someone had written a message.  It read, Don't believe him. I will come for you.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tangerine Dream

**Author's Note:**

> For kaeru_shisho, who requested the line 'What took you so long?' She also asked for a continuation of the 'Concept Variables' series. So, this is not at all that. Like, not even remotely. I promise to keep trying for that, but this was the idea that kept typing itself, so we'll start here and get it written and see if another 'Concept' can make it to the forebrain once it's done.

It was the smell of cooking eggs woke him.

He was in a bedroom. A boy's bedroom, he thought, for the sheets tangled about his legs were dark blue, and there were sports posters hung on the walls, and a pair of trainers on the rug by the door. There was a computer on the desk, beside it a stack of textbooks. He rolled onto his stomach, and blinked at the picture frame that greeted him from the bedside table. A handsome man and a woman in a beautiful, if dated, party dress, smiling and holding hands.

A knock at the door broke his reverie. 'Quatre,' a woman's voice called. 'Wake up, sleepyhead. It's nearly nine.'

His mouth was horribly dry. He sat up, coughing to clear his throat. 'I,' he said, and managed nothing else, because he didn't know what to say.

The lever handle dipped down and a girl put her head through the crack of the door. She smiled at him. 'Breakfast,' she said. 'You hungry?'

He was. 'Ravenous,' he said, and her smile was blindingly bright.

'Well get dressed and join us then, lazy,' she teased, and clicked the door shut behind her as she went.

There were boys' clothes in the cupboard. School uniforms, maybe, khaki trousers with iron-pressed folds and button-down shirts in a particularly bland shade of salmon. He trailed his fingers curiously over a trio of grey waistcoats on their hangers. He selected a blue pull-over and tracksuit bottoms, donning them over the pants he already wore. He found a small ensuite behind a glass screen, equipped with, he was relieved to see, a toilet and a sink. It wasn't til he was drying his face on the handtowel he realised what was missing; there was no mirror. He rubbed his forefinger over the little bump of plaster filling in a nail-hole where a mirror must have recently hung. He used the same finger to rub toothpaste over his teeth, avoiding the brush with clearly used bristles that stood in a little red cup. He avoided the trainers, too, which looked well-used, the laces frayed, the rubber soles worn down.

The bedroom let out into a corridor. There was only one other door, a WC with a full bath and a shower cubicle. It was bone dry. It did have a mirror, though, and he stopped, caught by his own reflection. Bruised-looking blue eyes stared back at him. His buttery-yellow hair fell lank over his forehead.

'Quatre?'

It was a man. No, a teenager, but tall, shoulders broad, chest full. He beckoned. 'Hungry?' he asked, as Quatre approached, and then slung an arm about his shoulders and pressed a casual kiss to his neck.

Oh.

He was still blushing when they left the corridor for the rest of the house. No, a flat, though a very large one, but the big windows overlooked a city from some considerable height, and a curiously grey sky. Quatre refocussed on the kitchen to which the tall boy was leading him. The woman who'd waked him was there, seated at a table with a paper spread beside her, though she folded it hastily and put it under her plate as they approached. 'At last,' she greeted them, taking his hand and squeezing it, kissing his knuckles. 'Oh, Quattie, didn't you sleep at all? You look worn out.'

'I don't know,' he answered truthfully. The tall boy held a chair for him. He sat, and a plate was set before him by another woman who emerged from the kitchen with a platter of food. She looked enough like the first to be a sister, perhaps, not old enough to be her mother. They shared silky blonde curls. He was presented with the handle of a wooden spoon, and served himself coddled eggs diced with tomatoes and peppers. His appetite vanished the moment it touched his plate, and he swallowed a wash of nausea as the smell hit him. The kettle of tea was less objectionable, and he filled the large mug at his place.

'Milk?' the tall boy asked, fetching the jug for him.

He hesitated. 'Do I... do I take milk?'

'Milk and one sugar,' the boy whispered, pouring for him. 'Two sugars if you're feeling naughty.'

He covered his embarrassment by sipping quickly, burning himself with his lack of caution but unwilling to admit to it. The tea tasted odd. Maybe he did take sugar. He dropped in a cube from the porcelain dish.

'You two going out today?' asked the woman from the kitchen, seating herself and taking a piece of the pita bread from the platter. She layered feta cheese and jam and took a bite, but she was watching him, not her food.

The tall boy answered. 'The concert starts at three. I thought we could go to the mall. Get a late lunch.'

'I,' Quatre said, and swallowed his tea. 'Okay.'

'You won't be out late, will you?'

'Oh, don't badger them, Iraia,' said the other woman. She winked at Quatre. 'What two consenting boys do with their Saturday night isn't any of our business.'

'I'm not badgering,' Iraia scowled. Reluctantly she smiled. 'I can't believe you still blush that badly,' she told him.

'I like it,' the tall boy murmured, finding Quatre's knee beneath the table and giving it a warm caress.

'I'll, er.' Quatre shoved his chair back, rising quickly. 'I'd like to, er, shower. If we're going out.'

'You look fine.'

'You didn't finish your breakfast,' Iraia said.

'I think I'm out of sorts this morning,' he shrugged. 'Leave it, I'll, I'll try it again when I'm decent.'

He thought one of them would follow him back to the bedroom. No-one did, but there were low whispers, sharp with questions. He flipped on the water in the shower cubicle, and pulled the curtain closed and then in a fit of inspiration shed his shirt, arranging it artfully on the mat. He darted back to his bedroom, silent on the carpet, and slid inside, making sure to catch the light. That plunged him into darkness, because, he realised, there was no window.

He touched everything as quickly as he could, one ear trained toward the rest of the flat. There was nothing beneath the sheets, nothing beneath the mattress, nothing beneath the bed. A book and an emergency hand torch in the drawer of the bedside table, a lamp which yielded no secrets when he ran cupped hands over its ceramic base and up into its plastic shade. All the posters were flat to the wall, none of the electrical switch plates were loose. He went through the contents of the cupboard again. Just clothes, unremarkable except that they seemed of good quality, and there were enough for several weeks' wear. There was a wristwatch of gold with a brown leather band on the desk; it had an inscription on the back, slightly faded with age, of LRW. Not Quatre, then. He flipped through the textbooks and found them dogeared here and there, briefly excited to locate a page of folded notes before he saw they were nothing but scratch with half-completed maths. He touched the computer screen, but the CPU was off and cold. But not dusty. It had been used recently.

Footsteps in the corridor. He crouched quickly in the little wedge of space between the desk and the bedframe, pressing his back to the wall. The steps paused, and the creak of the door was the bath, not the bedroom. No-one called out, relieving that flaw in his impromptu disguise. But the feet came to the bedroom door, and paused there too. He held his breath for seven excruciating seconds. And then the feet went off the way they'd come.

Only when he was sure of his safety did he escape, creeping back to the bath, stripping, and jumping into the spray of the shower. He soaked his hair first, slopping a palmful of shampoo into it so he'd be properly sudsy if he was interrupted again. He checked, but his shirt was undisturbed from how he'd left it, one sleeve draped like an arrow toward the sink.

The sink with the mirror. He touched his chest, where his reflection displayed a strange scar three fingers below his collarbone. He traced the edge. How odd. It almost looked like a bullet wound. And then he wondered how he knew what that would look like.

And then wondered how he'd missed it. The mirror. It was fogging up from the shower's steam. There were words appearing there, fading in. He flung back the curtain, fanning the heat toward the sink. Someone had written a message, and it had to be a private message, since only the one bedroom was near enough to use this bath.

It read, _Don't trust the food. I'll come for you. HY_

He'd had the tea. His stomach turned over. He needed no further urging. He bent over the shower drain in time for the acid mouthful of bile to splash violently into the swirl of soap.

He was paler on leaving the bath than going in. He combed his wet hair straight back off his forehead, and dressed with care, trying to pick something with optimal movement and durability. He doubled his socks, and left the dress shoes in the cupboard in favour of the trainers. He knotted the laces tightly. He could run in these. His pulse thudded in his ears. His mouth was dry again, horribly dry, but he only allowed himself a swallow directly from the faucet in the ensuite. Who knew what could be controlled here.

He'd taken too long, aroused suspicions. The tall boy came for him. 'You look nice,' he offered, leaning against the door jamb with his well-muscled arms crossed loosely.

'You, too.' He forced himself to smile. 'Green's your colour.'

'You picked it,' the boy said. He smiled, too. It didn't reach his eyes. 'There's really no rush. You want to watch a movie or something?'

'No--' He had no plausible reason, couldn't think of one. He had to get where people were. He needed an open space. Police. Somewhere to hide. He hadn't seen a phone in the flat. 'Be nice to have just us, like a, a date,' he extemporised, and dropped his eyes to the carpet, willing his face to heat. It must have worked. Fingers curled under his chin, drew him up into a warm mouth that slid over his, a slick tongue that flicked against his clenched teeth. He shuddered, and tried to cover his reaction by leaning in. He rested his palm on a taut abdomen.

'Sure, Quat.' A sigh puffed against his ear. 'I'll grab my keys.'

They rode a lift to an underground car park and the tall boy led him to a compact vehicle parked in a reserved space. The nameplate read 'Winner', which seemed odd. 'Was there a raffle for spaces?' he asked, as the boy held the passenger-side door for him.

'What?' The tall boy knelt by the rear axel. 'Shit,' he said. 'It's flat.'

'Do you want to change the tyre?'

'Yeah.' He tossed the keys, and Quatre opened the boot. There was a blanket and a box of jumbled junk. He moved them aside, searching.

'It's gone,' he said. 'There's no spare.'

'What?' The boy stood to peer in. 'I-- forgot. To replace it after the last time. Well, that's that.'

'Surely there's...' He cast about. 'Public, uh, transport. Or one of the ladies' cars? Can't let it, let it ruin our day.'

'Sorry, kid.' He was snagged about the waist and dragged in, and only just managed to turn his head so that the boy's lips brushed his ear. 'I bet we can fill the time,' he suggested, sly. 'They can repair it in time for the concert.'

He smothered his dismay. The HY of the mirror message had said they'd come, anyway. Maybe it was best to remain in situ, til he knew more. Til he knew bloody anything. Like what name he'd be moaning, if he got stuck necking on the couch with this stranger who seemed to know so much about him. 'Better make the call, then, love,' he said, forcing his lips to curl up. 'Or I can phone the insurance--'

'I can think of better things to do with your mouth.'

He swatted with a laugh. 'You're terrible.'

'You're always so easily shocked.' The boy kissed him then, rather seriously. There was a strange note of sadness in his eyes, gazing down at Quatre. 'I do love you,' he said. 'You know that?'

'Oh. I, of course.'

A thumb stroked over the whorl of his ear. 'It will be okay.'

There was odd emphasis in that. Will be. Doubt assailed him. 'I know.'

Another kiss, lingering softly. 'Let's just watch a movie. Just sit together. I miss just being with you.'

His hand was shaking. He cupped the boy's cheek. 'You really mean that, don't you.'

'Of course I do, Quat.'

'I, um.' He inhaled sharply, blew it out slowly. 'I don't quite feel-- myself. I, um, I think I ought to go back to bed a while. I'm sorry.'

'Don't be. No, that's fine. Rest.' The boy quirked an eyebrow. 'I'll be here.'

He woke what felt like a long time later to darkness. He was in the bedroom again, and opened his eyes to that picture frame of the couple. He reached out a hand that felt heavy and dragged it to his pillow. The cardboard separated from the back and he peeled out the photograph. In purpling ink it was marked '166: Lara & Kadar Winner, First Anniversary.' He studied their faces. The man was rather austere, his smile stiff, but the way he curled his hand protectively about the woman's, his wife's, was tender. She tilted her head, her sloped shoulder resting into his chest.

The CPU was warm, when he touched it this time. But it might be password-protected, and it would certain make noise if he turned it on, so he left it. He'd sweated through his pullover in his sleep. He dropped it into the empty hamper and found another in white. It had an odd stain on the inside of the cuff, a brown splotch. Blood?

The flat was quiet. It was dark out the window. There were no clocks, in addition to no phones. Thinking of it, he returned to the bedroom for the watch, only to discover the battery was flat. He dropped it to the desk, irritated. Scared. There was far too much wrong here, and with the clarity of hindsight he didn't trust that tyre hadn't been deliberately staged to stop them going out. Why no spare? Unless-- unless it was that HY person. The tall boy had seemed surprised by the missing spare. He didn't know, couldn't know. He went again to the bath, to stare at the mirror and its now hidden message. One more question to which he had no answer: he had no way of knowing when that message had been written. It would be there til someone washed the mirror, wouldn't it? It could have been there ages. Suddenly agitated, he slapped at the sink faucet, soaked the nearest flannel, and attacked the glass. He scrubbed hard, wiping out the unseen words.

'Quat.'

The boy. Standing there with two stem wineglasses. 'You want me to drink that, don't you,' he guessed.

'It's just wine.'

'Is it.' He let that hang there, loaded. The boy didn't blink.

'Why are you keeping me here,' he whispered. The boy held out the left glass. 'If I sleep so much, why am I still so tired?' he challenged, taking it. 'Why can't I remember anything? Why can't I remember you? I feel I should, but I don't, and you know I don't. What's in the wine?'

'Quatre.'

'Am I Quatre?'

'You are,' the boy said quietly. 'My Quatre.'

'And this is our home? Those women are our, what? Our nannies?'

'Iraia and Suzette are your sisters.'

'And you and I? That room has nothing of you in it. I suppose you're behind one of those doors that are locked to me.'

'There are reasons.'

'Reasons I don't remember!' His voice rose and he forced himself still. He didn't know where the women were or who else might be listening. 'Tell me. Please tell me.'

'You've been ill. You don't remember because of the medicine.'

'And it was in the tea. And it's in the wine now.'

'It will make you better.'

'How could I believe you? Do you even hear this? How can I trust it?'

'Do you think it's any less awful to watch you go through it? To see you like this and know I can't fix it?' The boy put the glass in his hand. Formed his fingers about the stem. 'Don't trust me. Trust what you feel about me. I saw it, down in the garage. You may not have the facts, but you have the feelings. You know you love me. And you wouldn't, if you couldn't trust that I want the best for you.'

His eyes stung. He dug a knuckle against them, hot tears spilling over his cheeks. 'What if that's not enough?'

'Then don't drink the wine. I'll be there. No matter what. We'd just, uh.' The boy's voice went dry and he stopped, for a minute, to gather himself. 'We'd do it again. It's not the first time. I know it's hard. It's always hard.'

'Why am I ill?'

'There was a machine,' the boy said. 'Artificial intelligence. You logged more hours than all but one other user. She had long-term affects, too.'

He seized on that. 'Had?'

'She died.'

He rubbed his eyes. Rubbed his mouth, and put the wine to his lips. He sipped. Another swallow. 'What's your name?' he asked, and drank again.

'Trowa,' the boy said. He took Quatre's free hand in his. He laced their fingers. 'Thank you.'

'For what?' He finished the wine.

'For believing me.' He pulled Quatre close, for a moment, and Quatre closed his eyes against the curve of Trowa's neck. 'Go get cleaned up,' Trowa said then. 'I'll sit with you til you sleep.'

'Okay.' He managed a tremulous smile. 'I'll just be a moment.'

He flipped on the light in the bath. Ran the shower, turning it up to soul-drowning warmth. He shed his clothes for the second time that day, and stepped under the spray. He drew a deep breath. Then he bent over the drain, put his fingers down his throat, and choked himself til he gagged up the wine. He covered the sound of his coughing and made sure to get it all up, then stood, dizzy and trembling, beneath the hot water. He washed, mechanically, and stepped out to grab a fresh towel from the rack.

The mirror had steamed up. Amid the streaks from his angry swabbing, there were new words.

_Don't believe him. I will come. HY_

Quatre swallowed. He moved to clean the mirror with his hand, and stopped. Instead, beneath that, he used his fingertip to write a message of his own.

I AM ME. I AM REAL. I AM THE ONLY THING REAL.

He woke in a dark room. He rolled onto his back. A boy's bedroom. A poster of a football player kicking a goal loomed overhead. He turned his head, and saw a photograph on the bedside table. A man and a woman, holding hands. He pried off the backing, and turned over the photo. The back had no writing on it. He looked at the picture again. He didn't recognise the people. One had brown hair, the other straight blonde hair in a ponytail.

The closet held unfamiliar clothes. He chose fleece bottoms and a black tee, and let himself out. There was chatter, and music, and light beyond the corridor, but he didn't approach it. A door drew his attention. It was a bath. He stepped to the sink and ran the water, bending to drink from his cupped hand. He was terribly thirsty.

His face in the mirror was ghostly white, his eyes sunken and bloodshot. His mouth was a thin bitten slash.

He squinted. There was something sort of streaky on the surface of the mirror. He leant in to examine it, and, thinking he guessed aright, breathed a hot breath over it.

Someone had written something on the mirror. He breathed on it again, and again and again, til he had the whole message before him.

_Break the mirror. I'm coming. HY_

'Quatre?' a man's voice called. 'You awake?'

Break the mirror. And, beneath it, mostly wiped away-- REAL.

'Quatre?' Footsteps.

He wrapped the damp handtowel over his fist. And ran the faucet again. It was likely to bleed a lot. He drew back his arm, and threw his hardest punch into the glass. It shattered with a ringing crack.

'Quatre!' The bathroom door with no lock blew open. 'Iraia,' Trowa called, grabbing Quatre in a headlock and wrenching him back. He slammed Quatre to the wall and caught his wrist. 'Iraia, he did it again--'

His blood was very red against the white plasterboard. The shard of glass that punctured his knuckles was quite sizeable. He felt no pain until he looked at it, so he squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face away.

He woke in a dark room. Hospital. He lay on a gurney. A banana bag of clear fluid dripped down a long plastic tube to the catheter in his arm. The hand below it was thickly bandaged in blood-stained white.

He was light-headed. He rose slowly, in stages; swung his legs over the edge, curled upright, gathered his strength. He gritted his teeth as he pulled out the needle. He dragged the bedsheet around his shoulders and wrapped himself tight. He was freezing. He tested the lever handle of the door, pressing it slowly down. It popped the latch.

Corridor. Bright white. A young woman in green scrubs walked down, passing him by without noticing his door cracked. She rounded a corner and disappeared. He listened hard, but heard no-one else, so he slipped out. He was soundless in his bare feet. He crept along the wall, going the direction the woman had come from. There were lifts, and, by the lifts, a stairwell. He tugged the sheet over his head like a hood, and ducked through the door. There was a marker on a plaque. 7. He breathed, in and out, in and out, to flush himself with oxygen, and then he took the stairs as fast as he dared, one hand on the rail and the other clutching the sheet tight.

He heard the door open. Booted feet clanging on the metal steps. He jumped for the landing, rebounded off the wall, and clattered down two at a time, throwing his hip against the railing for balance and sliding whenever he could. Floor 6. Floor 5. Floor 4. Another set of footsteps joined the first, garbled commands shouted into the echoes. Floor 3. Floor 2. Floor 1, and an emergency exit. He threw himself through the door and out into blinding sunlight, an alarm screeching overhead. He grasped tightly at his sheet and ran as hard as he could, head down. A car park. He veered around an ambulance and into the first lane, ducking low. He discarded the sheet and scurried along at a crouch, taking a diagonal path between vehicles. Two men behind him, no, three now, and they each took a different path, straight through, peering between aisles. He judged himself losing ground, when one shouted to the others about the sheet. He slid between the wheels of a van and back out the other side, watching as dark slacks and shoes passed him by. He gave it the space of three frantic heartbeats, and went back the way he'd come. The ambulance was still there. He hurled himself up into the back, grabbing frantically for supplies. Bottles, masks, tubes, hypodermics-- a windbreaker and a cap. He shrugged into them and grabbed the big orange kit. His cotton trousers would look enough like scrubs to get him by. He checked as best he could with limited field of vision, and took the chance. No-one called out, no-one came running when he climbed out of the car. He struck off toward the hospital, glancing up once to get his bearings. The sign was obscured from his angle, but there were trees, and that strange grey sky--

A hand closed on his arm. He wheeled about, swinging the kit, and knocked aside the gun that had been coming for him. He followed through with the blow and the kit bashed into the head of the man who'd caught him, bursting open and spraying them both with plastic baggies. He let go the handle as soon as the impact blazed up his arm, and he ran.

'Hold!' a rough voice commanded, and he ducked on automatic, charging hard left. The prongs of a projectile taser flew by him. A nurse exiting the lobby walked right into his path, and he dodged, stumbling in his attempt not to hit her, and slammed right into another body. One that clapped a hand over his mouth and hauled him sideways, face-first through a door, and then they were in darkness.

'Quiet.' The man who held him, boy, maybe, no taller than him but immensely strong, like steel bands trapping his arms at his sides, dragging him along. 'I'm here to help.'

Help. He sagged, letting his dead weight slow them, and was propped up against a wall. The hand on his mouth hovered a moment longer, then lowered.

'Who are you?' he demanded promptly.

'Heero Yuy,' the boy said, and then stepped close and kissed him passionately, so hard their teeth clicked and noses smashed, and he forgot to breathe til it ended as abruptly as it had begun. 'You did it,' the boy whispered. 'You made it.'

Heero Yuy. HY. 'You're the man in the mirror,' he said, as dizziness swept him again.

'I told you I was coming for you.'

'What took you so bloody long.' He almost laughed, or something to let out the crazy wild shout that seized his chest. He didn't. Because icy fear followed immediately. 'Where are we?'

'Downtown L4. We need to get off the colony. I have transport.' Heero Yuy had a bag over his shoulder, and from it drew clothes. 'That was quick with the windbreaker. It should buy us time. They'll be looking for that. We'll ditch it somewhere to throw off the search.'

'Where are the other people? Trowa and the women?'

'Are you--' Yuy took hold of his chin, tilting his head for the dim light of the door's outline. 'You can't still be drugged, not if you knew to get out of there.'

'Are they the ones who brought you here?'

'They've been holding you for six months. It took three just to find you. They were more careful, this time.' Heero Yuy was dressing him as he spoke, even kneeling to put shoes on his feet. A suitcoat, and a dark wig and blocky spectacles. 'So we were more careful this time. We need to get off the colony as soon as we can. I have a ship at the dock. If we can make it to Earth, we can keep ahead of them.'

'Ahead of who? Trowa?'

'Everyone.' Heero Yuy stood and, for a moment, just stared at him, drinking him in. His callused fingertips trailed the air just beyond his cheek. 'They want what we have.'

'What do we have?'

'ZERO,' Heero whispered. 'They won't shut it off. We won't let them.'

'Zero? What's that--'

'Shh.' Heero turned his head sharply. 'We need to move. This exits onto the rear lobby. We're going to walk out, calm, like we've just left an appointment. I have a taxi waiting half a block away. All we have to do is keep calm and inconspicuous. They're looking for a runner. We can make it to the docks. With me?'

Not a question. Heero seized his arm and marched him along through the dark. It was a grip tight enough to hurt, but he didn't protest it. They turned, right and then right again, and then there was another door. Heero went first, and came back for him almost immediately, before he could decide whether to follow freely. This time he took Quatre by the hand, a bone-crushing grip that hid his bloody bandage from view and warned him silent with pain. He bit his lip and concentrated on walking casually. Through a row of potted ficus trees, a miniature atrium, and past the desk where a docent was describing the map to a harried woman with two children. The glass doors swished wide for their approach. They were through, and there was only a single man beyond, smoking a cigarette and uninterested in them.

'We can do this,' Heero murmured to him. 'We'll be safe on Earth.'

'Who is we?'

'You'll remember more when you've got their drugs out of your system.'

'But tell me now. We?'

'You and me.' Heero caught his gaze for a moment. 'The Resistance will shelter us until it's safe.'

'Resistance? There was a war?'

'You'll remember.'

He did, though, or thought he did. Guns and running, always running, and, dazzled by the odd grey sky, he thought it should have been blue, because he remembered blue, and--

'The Gundams.'

'We'll get them back.'

'We destroyed them.'

'Because they tricked us,' Heero whispered harshly. 'But we'll get them back. You and I. We can do it, if we're together. I know where ZERO is.'

He didn't know what that was. But he knew it made him feel sick inside. 'Heero,' he said, and the boy turned to look at him again. 'Heero, I... I don't want to.'

The boy's face went tight and grim. 'You have to.'

He stopped walking. Their arms stretched out and then Heero yanked him along. He stumbled, and went to his knees.

'Don't make a scene,' Heero hissed. 'There are cameras.'

'I don't want to. I don't want to go where ZERO is.'

'You have to! It needs us!'

'I don't--'

It was only a slap but it knocked him to the pavement. He sprawled, scraping his chin. Then Heero grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him upright. 'Keep moving.'

'No. No, please.'

'Stop!'

'Run,' Heero ordered, and towed him by force. He fought, he threw an elbow and scratched with his fingernails, as a car came streaking round the car park and men came pouring out of the lobby to chase them. Heero had a gun and he fired, and one of the men dropped. Quatre latched onto Heero's arm and threw all his weight behind it, and the next bullet ricocheted off the concrete. They tumbled down together all tangled, and Heero kicked him in the hip and this time hit him across the face with a fist. He felt the back of his skull bounce on the pavement, and then everything was--

Dark. He was in a boy's bedroom. He smelled eggs cooking.

He realised it was knocking had waked him. A girl poked her head in, smiling to see him. 'It's almost nine,' she chided brightly. 'You going to sleep all day? Come get breakfast.'

'Oh,' he said, confused, and sat upright. 'Breakfast?'

The door swung wide. A tall boy joined the girl. Green eyes met his. 'Breakfast,' he confirmed in a soft voice, and lifted the mug he carried. 'Brought your tea. Milk and sugar, the way you like it.'

'Oh. Thank you.'

'Give us a minute, Iraia?' The boy joined him in the room, seating himself on the edge of the bed. 'How you feeling?' he asked, passing the warm mug.

'I don't know,' he said. 'I, er... I think... I think I must have slept very hard. I don't remember anything, isn't that silly?'

'Not silly.' The boy touched his cheek and forehead. 'You had a pretty hard fall the other day. The doctor said it might scramble your brains a bit. Relax today. If it gets worse, we'll go in for a scan.'

'Right. Sensible.' He sipped, and hesitated. 'Um, you...'

'Trowa,' the boy said. 'And Quatre. That's you.'

He summoned an awkward smile. 'Course it is. Sorry.'

'No apologies. Can't fix it if we don't know what's wrong.' He took Quatre by the hand, and kissed his knuckles. 'You scared me,' he confessed quietly. 'I just want you to be okay.'

'Then I will be.'

This kiss was rather more intimate, and yet it ended chastely. 'Go get cleaned up. We were waiting for you to eat.'

There was a bath down the corridor. A tub and a shower cubicle, a sink. He washed his face and dried it on a handtowel, and shrugged on the terrycloth robe hs found hanging from the rack. It smelled like the boy Trowa, sort of musky and inviting. It made him smile without knowing quite why. It wasn't til he was running the comb from the sink through his hair that he noticed there was no mirror. Odd. There was plenty of space for one, and even a little hole in the plasterboard where a nail must have stood. Well. A mystery for another time, in a place that seemed to have quite a lot of them. Maybe it was just as well. His head hurt horribly, and he found the stiches in the back with the comb before he thought to be careful of a headwound. If he looked as bad as he felt, no mirror was a blessing.

The girl from before sat at table with Trowa, and there was another woman in the kitchen, just putting the finishing touches on a large platter of coddled eggs. She carried to the table and served him first, giving him a little one-armed hug. 'Eat up,' she ordered him. 'You're getting skinny, skipping meals all the time.'

'Yes, um--'

'Suzette,' Trowa whispered.

'Suzette,' he repeated obediently. 'Sorry to worry you.'

Oddly, her eyes filled with tears. But she smiled through them. 'I know you are, sweetie. It will be okay.'

'It will,' Trowa said. He took Quatre's hand on the table. 'We'll all be more careful now.'

'Absolutely,' Quatre agreed, and sipped his tea.


End file.
